


You and I in an Imperfect Place

by guns_and_poses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Roll In The Hay, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash, Suits and Neckties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guns_and_poses/pseuds/guns_and_poses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First time Sherlock/John... in a barn filled with horses... in a haystack... at night. Essentially smutty romance in a hayloft.</p>
<p> <i>John stops suddenly when he starts to feel the hay begin to slope up behind him and leans forward again, one hand reaching out to grip the lapel of Sherlock’s jacket to pull him into another slow kiss.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	You and I in an Imperfect Place

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt: First time John/Sherlock sex happens in a haystack, at night, either in a barn filled with horses or just outside one.

 

 

 

 

Their first kiss had happened in an alley.

There had been no criminal to chase, not directly anyway. Of all things the wind had been the thing to thank for it.

They had been heading towards home in the late spring sunshine, Sherlock rattling off theories about the tiny scrap of cryptogram-covered paper pinched between his fingers, a clue in their latest case.

They watched in astonishment as a sudden breeze snatched the paper from Sherlock’s hand and carried it away in a wild eddy into a grim and shady alleyway. Sherlock let out a shout of frustration and dashed after it, John right on his heels. The scrap touched down and then took off again, twice, on the rise of another gust. It sent them scrambling after it and laughing hysterically by the time John finally managed to lay his hands on it.

They had both been doubled over, catching their breath, and in a moment on which the gambler in John laid even odds of being one of absolute clarity or one of pure insanity he had leaned forward and kissed Sherlock, arguably brief but most definitely not chaste. He had then drawn back, apologized, asked for forgiveness... which Sherlock granted by pulling him into another kiss. _That_ kiss had been neither chaste _nor_ brief.

Perhaps it’s fitting, that it had happened in such a setting, in the rough-bricked grit of a shadowed alley instead of some pristine and proper place. Perhaps it’s no wonder that they had been able to let down their guard there, much of their courtship having been spent seeking thrills and hunting criminals in the dust of abandoned houses and the seedy spots of the city and the gloom of night. Two flawed and unusual men destined to never quite fit within the clean, orderly lines of convention.

But as they left that alley behind, set their feet back on solid ground among the refined facades of stately buildings lining the bright and bustling street, the entire event had taken on a surreal quality. They had returned home, returned to the case, returned to their routine, neither seeming quite prepared just yet to face what had happened, let alone take it any further.

That had been five days ago.

But now here they are, in the large formal garden on the Holmes family estate, John brought along for the ride in Sherlock’s half-hearted bid to satisfy his mother’s request for more than just an annual visit from her youngest son. A soiree is in progress, something about the local arts association or horticultural society or who knows what. Sherlock hadn’t actually bothered to pay any attention to what was printed on the invitation when he agreed to attend. His only goal at the time had been to put an end to the incessant texts and phone calls from Mycroft in regards to Sherlock’s “childish insistence of doing everything in your power to break our poor mother’s delicate heart”.

John had watched Sherlock stomp around the flat, muttering to Mycroft something about their mother being anything but “poor” and her heart being “not even in the vicinity of ‘delicate’” before ending the phone call with a scathing “Fine!” and slumping into his chair with a loud sigh. “Just wear your nicest suit,” was the only thing Sherlock had said to John in the wake of that call, but John had taken the order for the silent plea for his company that it really was.

As to the Holmes estate, John already knew that the place existed, and had already met the Holmes matriarch some months before while she was in London, but this is the first time he has actually been to the place. It is both more and less than he expected. Not a titanic palace with a legion of household staff standing at constant attention, as he had often mused, but certainly grand in style.

The garden is a portrait of thoroughly domesticated nature. Static ranks of urns keeping falls of greenery in careful check and standing guard along the wide steps leading from the back of the house. An immense expanse of brick carves a smooth surface into the verdant earth, flower beds inset in each corner restrain displays of obedient flowers. All is contained within the precise angles of the shorn hedgerows which form the garden’s high walls, everything flawless in its symmetry.

In the center of the space are organized rows of tables, each impeccably draped in crisp white linen and covered with all manner of fine food and drink, glinting crystal and polished silver. Above hangs a calculated grid of fairy lights, punctuated at regular intervals with simple paper lanterns. The dulcet if not somewhat sedate strains of a string quartet fill the air.

John’s appropriately dressed for the festive and balmy-weathered occasion, courtesy of a jaunty pin stripe suit and a shirt and tie in a smart shade of blue that summons the same hue in his eyes. The outfit had joined his wardrobe for the wedding of one of his best mates from his old regiment, and frankly he’s just glad for the chance to make use of it once more.

In regards to the party itself, he’s being his usual courteous self and engaging in a never-ending parade of conversations, indeed about horticulture as it turns out, with people he will most likely never see again.

Sherlock, however, is casting a long shadow around the cheerful setting in one of his suits of bleakest black and a shirt of purest white which only serves to draw attention to a coal-black tie. Other than spending some requisite time with his mother, he’s dodging every ploy meant to drag him into an assuredly mundane exchange, haunting the party’s periphery with a dour expression like an errant undertaker.

Though his amusement with the proceedings is currently razor-thin, he’s reserved what there is of it for John, doling it out to him in sly smiles from across the garden. Their behavior towards one another has largely gone unchanged since that dream-like kiss in a dingy alley. But still it’s left a thread of tension stretched between them which has been drawing them together all evening, twisting and tangling and shortening the distance dividing them as they dance around one another with furtive glances.

As the event gets into full swing, John feels a familiar pull on his consciousness, and looks up, searching, until he finds Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock’s standing on the far side of the garden near a large archway which is cut meticulously into the tall hedge. John has seen that same expression focused on him from across a crime scene. It’s a look that with no discussion between them has somehow come to mean that Sherlock needs John at his side right that moment.

John extricates himself from a circle of party guests and winds his way through the garden. As he approaches within earshot he asks Sherlock, “Finally cracked have you? Should I be worried about you whipping out a machete and hacking a smiley face into the shrubbery?”

“It would be an improvement,” Sherlock says, eyeing the towering wall of leaves with sudden, terrifying interest. He looks back over to the group John has just left. “You seem to be getting on quite well. According to my mother my only pleasant contribution to this evening is _you_.”

“If by ‘contribution’ she means you throwing me to the well-washed masses as a distraction so you can run and hide then yes, I suppose she’s right,” John says with a radiant grin before it wanes slightly. He asks tentatively, “Is that all I am? A distraction?”

Sherlock’s gaze moves over John’s face, lingers on his mouth before returning to his eyes. “I’d say you’re distract- _ing_. There’s a difference,” he says earnestly, pleased to see understanding spark in John’s rekindled grin. “Time for a break from this _merriment_ ,” Sherlock adds with a sneer as he indicates the archway in the hedge with a slight nod of his head, like he’s surreptitiously signaling the direction of an escape tunnel to a fellow prisoner.

“About bloody time,” John says under his breath. Sherlock smiles at him.

They walk through the arch to a second hedge-walled section, a smaller garden which is filled with more tidy flower beds, along with benches and statuary and a handful of wandering party-goers. They leave the gardens and party behind by crossing the threshold of another arch on the opposite side.

They pass an open stretch of land where the uniform planes of the manicured lawn give way to pastoral grass, the very last of the fading sunlight highlighting the peaks and valleys of the unclipped blades. With each step they place between themselves and the garden the distinctive clatter of each clinking glass and clanking fork, the distinguishable chatter of each dull question and rote answer melts away, devolves into a formless hum.

The first stars of the evening emerge in the deepening indigo of the sky above as they ramble down a well-worn path. Its edges are softened by sporadic washes of muted outdoor lighting and the occasional unruly bramble. They round a gentle curve, head down a shallow slope and then back up, until an outbuilding comes into view. It looks as old as the main house, only far less ornate and much more weathered, its lines awry and angles askew.

John guesses that it must be a stable. “You have horses?” he asks.

“My _mother_ has horses,” Sherlock corrects.

“Can we have a look?” John asks buoyantly.

Sherlock heaves out a put-upon sigh. “I suppose.”

Sherlock slides open the stable’s large door just enough to pass through and leads the way into the dim interior. John’s senses immediately take in the very subtle stirrings of the horses as they react to his and Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock flicks on a light switch, and a bit more light spills into the space, crude wooden surfaces gaining varied shades of sepia and umber and honey under the incandescent glow.

The stable is a modest size, just a handful of stalls and a tack room. In the end of the building opposite of the main entrance there’s a small hayloft in the gable, a fixed ladder leading up to it. The interior shows the building’s age, and it’s no doubt inefficient compared to the design and trappings of a modern stable, but it is well-kept and there’s a sense of warmth and ease given off by the imperfections of the rough-hewn timbers.

John walks farther into the stable, observing its quiet occupants. “Wow. Horses.” he says simply.

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth curl up slightly. “Yes, well-observed, John.”

“Shut up,” John chuckles. After a moment he asks, “Do you ride?”

“I know how to, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Huh,” John says. “Doesn’t seem like you would waste space in that brain of yours on something like that.”

Sherlock’s brow crinkles. “It’s a common enough subject. Might be useful to know about such a thing.”

“What, for a case? You think so?” John asks skeptically. “As in, one day I’ll be typing up something like... ‘The Curious Incident of the Stolen Stallion?” he says, breaking into a laugh.

Sherlock huffs lightly. “Stranger things have happened.”

“To us?” John scoffs before his eyebrows draw together thoughtfully, “Yes I think you’re right.” He continues his tour, until he’s made it to the other end of the stable, Sherlock trailing behind him. “Well, this is quite nice,” John concludes.

Sherlock shoves one hand into his trouser pocket and reaches out with the other to lean casually on the hayloft’s ladder, the wood of its rungs ancient and pitted but steadfastly sturdy. “If you say so. I think I’ve only been in here maybe ten times in my entire life,” he says dismissively.

“Really?” John says with honest surprise.

Sherlock gives a half-shrug. “Dull.”

John’s expression turns contemplative. “I would have been down here constantly if I’d grown up here.” He looks around, attention catching on the hayloft above. He reaches out and rests his hand on a rung of the ladder. “See like this. I would have been up there all the time.”

Sherlock pushes himself away from the ladder, straightens up and says confidently, “Hiding from Harry.”

John grins widely, as he often does when Sherlock correctly deduces something about him. “Too right. She’s terrified of heights.” He cranes his neck towards the loft. “She’d never have set foot up there. Bloody peaceful I’ll bet.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sherlock says indifferently.

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve never been up there? Not even as a kid? I find that hard to believe.” John’s expression turns sly. “Where’s your sense of adventure, detective?”

Sherlock squints at him in feigned irritation. “Are you mocking me, _doctor_?”

“Not at all,” John says, then adds mischievously, “But that simply cannot stand.” He steps up onto the lowest rung and begins to climb.

A grin spreads across Sherlock’s face as he watches John’s progress. He asks incredulously, “What are you doing?”

“Exploring new territory,” John says as he reaches the top of the ladder. He climbs high enough to turn around and sit on the floor of the loft, the edge of it pressed into the backs of his knees and his legs swinging absentmindedly in front of the ladder. There are a few bales of hay stacked erratically around the edges, but much of the hay is loose. It covers most of the floor in a thin layer and slopes up into a messy heap near the center, the entire space made more intimate by the enveloping angles of the gable roof above. There’s an access door set in the outside wall and the faint sound of the party’s string quartet floats through its cracks. John looks around, assessing the view, before looking back down at Sherlock with barely-contained delight.

Sherlock smirks up at him. “That suit’s done for.”

John shrugs. “Pity,” he says and looks away for a moment, then looks back, his tone even but his expression _daring_. “You should join me.”

There’s a pause, filled from edge to edge with breathless anticipation, John’s invitation landing like a lightning strike long before the low thunder of Sherlock’s coy response. “And why would I want to do that?”

John’s eyes sparkle. “Could be dangerous.”

Sherlock’s smirk quirks up higher on one side. “That’s your siren song, John, not mine.”

John nods his head minutely in acknowledgment, “So it is.” His smile slants as he tries again. “All right then, how about this... if you come up here I promise that you most definitely will not be bored.”

Sherlock hums in agreement, his voice darkening. “Ah, well, now you have me.”

“Thought I might,” John says.

Sherlock steps towards the ladder and John leans forward slightly to look down the line of it, his hands gripping the tops of its vertical rails which extend a short distance above the level of the loft’s floor. Sherlock slinks up the ladder, his eyes never leaving John’s. His expression turns challenging as he nears the top, expecting John to move away from the ladder, but John simply slides his knees slightly farther apart to allow Sherlock to reach the uppermost rungs. Sherlock smirks, grabs the top rung and levers himself up, not quite even with John’s height, his eyes full of salacious intent. John grins and starts to lean away, out of range, but Sherlock takes one hand off the ladder and grabs John’s necktie to reel him in until their lips meet. They kiss with a hint of hesitancy, the experience still new but tantalizing nonetheless.

Sherlock says haughtily, “This might work better if you move back.”

John smiles and says, “You’re not exactly giving me much incentive to get out of your way.”

“If you let me off this ladder I can use both of my hands,” Sherlock explains.

“Obvious,” John admits with a smirk, then kisses him again, reverently soft but almost cruelly slow, before pulling away to watch Sherlock’s eyes as they flicker back open.

John flashes him another of his endearingly effortless grins. It’s part ardent admirer, part lionhearted rogue, and it makes Sherlock’s brain stutter. Sherlock smiles lightly and murmurs, “Fantastic.”

John laughs quietly and shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it hastily out of the way. He leans back on his palms, pulls his feet up onto the floor and scoots backwards away from the ladder with a few ungainly pushes and the rustling sound of hay. Sherlock pulls himself up the rest of the way and crawls onto the floor of the loft towards John, surpassing the pace of John’s retreat until he’s crawling up the length of John’s body. John stops suddenly when he starts to feel the hay begin to slope up behind him and leans forward again, one hand reaching out to grip the lapel of Sherlock’s jacket to pull him into another slow kiss.

Sherlock pulls back, reluctantly, and kneels, his legs straddling John’s just above his knees. He straightens up and looks around them coolly, as though he’s intent on inspecting their new surroundings. “I don’t know, John, somehow I expected _more_ ,” he says, looking down at John smugly.

John smiles, sits up enough to unbutton Sherlock’s suit jacket then reaches up with his right hand and scissors Sherlock’s necktie between two fingers. He slides them slowly down the length of it, a mere diversionary tactic that aids in drawing a surprised gasp from Sherlock as the back of John’s _left_ hand slides _up_ the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. “You’ve just got up here,” John points out helpfully. He drops both of his hands away once the end of Sherlock’s tie slips from between his fingers and leans back on his palms again, looking up at Sherlock provocatively.

Sherlock turns his head slightly to fix John with a sideways glare that reads as, _‘Oh, the game is on, little man.’_

It’s slightly awkward while kneeling, but Sherlock manages to reach back and remove his own shoes, holding each one up in turn and tossing them over his shoulder, earning a crooked smile from John. He smiles back when he feels John’s legs shift under him slightly as John toes off his shoes as well. Sherlock _leisurely_ slips out of his jacket, letting it fall down to the crooks of his elbows before sliding his arms free and dropping it nearby. He smiles wider to himself as he observes John’s eyes following his movements with intense interest, noting the perceptible escalation of John’s breathing. “Your shirt cuff, please,” Sherlock says, motioning to John’s left arm.

John takes the weight off of his arm and brings it forward, turning it over to present his wrist to Sherlock. Sherlock reaches with his left hand to cup John’s hand in his own and uses his right thumb to brush away a piece of hay stuck to John’s palm. He slides his thumb up the heel of John’s hand towards his wrist and then removes John’s cuff link, reaching over and dropping it on top of his own discarded jacket.

He turns John’s hand over and folds the cuff of his sleeve up one, twice, then raises John’s hand up to place a kiss on his knuckles, pulling one of them between his lips briefly as he meets John’s gaze. He watches as John’s breath shudders out of him. Sherlock smirks and releases John’s left hand, then repeats then entire process with his right. Once he’s done with John’s shirt cuffs he leans forward and works his fingertips into the tidy knot of John’s necktie, thrillingly aware of John’s eyes on him.

John shivers at the sensation of his tie being removed, the slide of it across the back of his neck only slightly diminished by the layer of his shirt as Sherlock draws it away, a soft whisper of silk filling John’s ears. He feels Sherlock’s smooth fingers on his neck as they begin unbuttoning his shirt. He leans up to sneak a kiss onto the corner of Sherlock’s mouth while he has the chance.

Sherlock’s lips twitch in amusement and he leans back again, keeping his eyes on his own hands as he unhurriedly opens the rest of John’s buttons, pulling John’s shirt free of his trousers to complete the task. He takes in the narrow stripe of skin revealed by John’s now open shirt and rubs a fingertip back and forth over John’s stomach, just above his waistband. He inhales deeply and exhales slowly, trying not to lose his own composure when he hears John breathe out “ _Christ_ ”.

Sherlock reaches for his own tie and loosens it, ever so slowly pulling it free and tossing it on top of his jacket. He skims the tips of his fingers up his own chest to unbutton the top three buttons of his shirt, a satisfying tingle running up his spine when John is forced to blow out a steadying breath. Sherlock moves on to his shirt cuffs and John’s eyes devour the sight of Sherlock’s long fingers at work. Sherlock deftly removes one cuff link and drops it onto his jacket. Their eyes meet again and they pin each other with desirous stares, both beginning to lose control of their breathing, pulses pounding, as Sherlock starts removing his other cuff link... which... seems to be... caught on something...

Sherlock appears to abruptly forget he’s in the middle of a striptease as he frowns and glares down at his cuff, shoulders sagging a little as he becomes more distracted. John quickly covers his own mouth with his hand, trying in vain to stifle a laugh. Sherlock’s eyes dart up to shoot daggers at him, then back to his problematic cuff link. As Sherlock works he starts smiling too despite himself, and John huffs out another quiet laugh. A moment later the offending cuff link joins its mate on top of Sherlock’s jacket, and he and John exchange a look of _‘Now where were we?’_

John expects Sherlock to continue removing his shirt but instead he just tauntingly rolls up his sleeves. He does it in the same meticulous manner John has seen a million times in their kitchen at home, and John realizes that he will never again be able to see Sherlock preparing to do a chemistry experiment without remembering _this moment_ on _this night_. The thought floods him with a wave of deep adoration, and he sits up in a rush to throw his arms around Sherlock’s waist and just _hold_ him, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s chest and breathing him in.

The significance behind the embrace is evident, and Sherlock’s posture stiffens as John’s impromptu offering of unrestrained affection completely catches him off guard. Sherlock swallows nervously and his arms hang hesitantly above John’s shoulders, his thoughts scrambling over themselves trying to formulate a response. But then he feels John tense and try to pull away, hears him try to _take it back_ with an uneasy, self-conscious laugh, and suddenly with no memory of his brain reaching a decision Sherlock finds himself pulling John back to him.

John presses his forehead back against Sherlock’s chest and allows himself a brief, private grin. He tilts his head back and Sherlock’s looking down at him with one of his faint, fond smiles. John slides his hands around from Sherlock’s back to dig his fingers into the sides of Sherlock’s slim waist for a beat before reclining back into the hay, this time propped up on his elbows. “Come down here,” John murmurs.

And Sherlock does. Still kneeling, he leans forward and plants his left palm on the floor just under John’s right arm and then lowers himself until he can place his other palm just outside John’s left shoulder, keeping his elbows locked to hold his body above John’s. The position is such that when their mouths meet it’s the only real point of contact between them, and the absence of any other touch serves to intensify the sensation of the kiss, soft lips and warm breath and determined tongues. As good as it feels the desire to be closer soon becomes overwhelming, both of them growing achingly hard and thrumming with the erotic current arcing in the maddening space separating their bodies.

John finally breaks and pulls away, straightening out his arms to drop fully onto his back. He grabs for the back of Sherlock’s neck with his right hand to pull him down, but Sherlock’s already starting to dive into him. John brings his left hand up to Sherlock’s waist to roll him onto his back, letting go of Sherlock’s neck and sliding his right arm under it while propping himself up on his right elbow. The rustle and crush of the hay underneath them accompanies their movements, and Sherlock winds up lying on a gentle incline, his neck cradled on John’s right forearm and John’s front pressed up against his left side.

John descends on him, grasping at Sherlock’s cheek and kissing him hard. Sherlock feels John’s fingertips slide up to meander gently through his hair, and he slips his own hand between them and up to the nape of John’s neck. He glides his fingers gently down and around John’s neck, under his open shirt to touch his chest. He rubs his thumb slowly over John’s nipple, feeling the clench of John’s fingers in his hair and the vibration of John’s moan against his lips.

His fingertips move upwards to John’s shoulder and eventually trace the ridges of his battle scar. Sherlock has touched it once before, while helping to bandage John up one night after a case, just as John has tended Sherlock’s injuries time and again. But there had been a cold, clinical distance in those interactions, and now that no such barrier is in place he experiences a rush of heat at being allowed to _finally_ know John in the way he’s really wanted. Soon his body issues a fevered demand for John’s hands in return. “ _John_... want... _need_ you to touch me,” he says. His fingers slip away from John and begin to quickly open the rest of the buttons of his own shirt as he murmurs, “ _Please_... touch me.”

“ _Jesus_... yes,” John says, and slides his left hand down from Sherlock’s hair to slip it inside his shirt and follow the progress of Sherlock’s fingers as they open each button, never ceasing the presses of his mouth against Sherlock’s. John feels the rapid thump of Sherlock’s heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, the muscles of his abdomen pulling taut with a shudder under John’s palm. By the time John reaches Sherlock’s waistband he can feel Sherlock tugging open his own belt and clutching his trousers and underwear, Sherlock’s body arching as he lifts his hips and pushes his clothing down his thighs. Before John’s hand can delve any lower of its own volition its being grasped in Sherlock’s frantic fingers as Sherlock arches upward again to push his rigid cock up into John’s palm. John’s fingers curl around it instantly, slipping up to the very top and slicking it on the way back down, working it slowly in steady pulls.

Sherlock _whines_ “...John...” low in his throat, and John pursues that gratifying sound with another kiss. Between John’s commanding mouth and capable fingers Sherlock’s losing the ability to breathe, but he happily goes without enough oxygen for as long as he can. He feels John’s still-clothed thigh as it shifts and presses against the bare skin of his own, feels John’s erection rut hard against his hip, and suddenly it’s too much. He wrenches his mouth free, turns his head away, gasping, his lungs alternately screaming out for air and then dragging in the sweet scent of hay.

John’s eyes roam down the length of Sherlock’s writhing body, taking in the view of his tailored shirt thrown open in disarray, muscles flexing tight and then falling lax, his narrow hips working desperately to thrust himself harder into John’s fist. John looks away, trying to find a saner place to settle his gaze, trying to just _survive the sight_ of Sherlock surrendering his beloved self-control. But then he sees Sherlock’s flushed face, reddened lips parted, eyes darting aimlessly and dazed with lust, and it almost undoes him. “ _Jesus_ ,” John breathes, _pleads_. He saves himself, but just barely, pulls himself back from the edge by the grace of his own shuttered eyelids. He drops his head, presses his lips against Sherlock’s ear to moan, hot and helpless, “ _Fuck_... I could come just from watching you.”

Sherlock’s eyes squeeze shut as he unleashes an obscene, almost tortured groan that reverberates off the rafters just above them. He gives one more shallow push of his hips, then pulls away from John’s grasp. He slides away from John just enough to roll himself onto his left side and face him and begins attacking the fastenings of John's trousers.

John gasps out an absolution, “Sherlock, you don’t have to–”

Sherlock silences him, growling “ _Oh yes_ I do,” and working the tip of his tongue into John’s mouth just as he works his hands into John’s open flies. Through the soft fabric of John’s underwear Sherlock rubs a hand impatiently along the length of John’s cock before hooking his fingertips into the waistband. He pushes himself upright enough to nudge John onto his back and slides down his body, scarcely giving his own fingers enough time to pull John’s underwear out of the way before he swallows him down.

“ _God_ ,” John says, the want in his voice stretching and bending the word from a gasp into a choked cry. His hands begin to dig into the hay, feeling its coarseness, before abandoning it for the softness of Sherlock’s hair. He feels Sherlock tug on his hips enough to strip John's trousers and underwear down to his knees and tip John back towards him slightly, long fingers skimming powerfully over John's arse and thighs. The briskness of the cool night air and the bristle of the hay are only faint sensations against John’s newly-bared skin, both unable to compete with the divine, wet heat of Sherlock’s indulgent mouth.

As Sherlock eagerly sucks him in and languidly draws him back out, John is shocked into silence for a time before his restrained gasps and moans rise into hot-blooded voice, “Sherlock... _fuck_... _yes_... _Christ_ , that feels _amazing_.” His hips press upward as Sherlock’s hand digs more firmly into the back of his thigh. John shifts his hands in Sherlock’s hair, moves them out of the way and looks down. Sherlock glances up, the desire in his eyes burning like pale blue fire within the braziers of his dark eyelashes. John can almost sense a flash inside his own head as the sight is seared into his memory, there to stay until the end of his days. “Jesus Christ...” John's voice falters “... _fuck_ , I’m... I’m...” and breaks completely “... _Sherlock_...” as he comes. John shakes and swears and sinks, slips down deeper into the hay.

Sherlock releases John’s cock with a wanton pop and gasps against his hip, holding onto John’s body long enough to appreciate the trembling aftermath of his orgasm. Sherlock then urgently pushes himself upright, wriggling out of one trouser leg that’s pinning his knees too-tightly together and resumes a kneeling position. His shirt hangs loose off one shoulder and his thighs and torso form an erect but quivering line as he takes himself in hand, eyes closed and lips parted as his right arm flexes rhythmically.

John watches, stunned and panting and willing himself to recover, like some blissed-out version of a boxer struggling to get back into the fight. He pushes himself up until he’s kneeling also, scrambles forward on his knees and grips Sherlock’s neck with both hands, shoving his fingers up into Sherlock’s hair as he tilts his head down to kiss him. Sherlock’s tongue invades his mouth, and John sucks on it gently, then _not so_ gently, humming a lascivious sound of approval, the variation in flavor he finds there serving as evidence of what Sherlock has just done to him.

Sherlock realizes _why_ John made that sound, and breaks away to gasp a deduction against John’s chin. “I taste different now.”

John gives a “Mmm hmm” of agreement.

“Taste like you,” Sherlock purrs.

“Fuck _yes_ you do,” John growls. He pushes Sherlock’s shirt off of his other shoulder so it slips farther down his arms and recaptures Sherlock’s mouth. His hands wander over Sherlock’s shoulders and chest, feeling smooth skin and a subtle slide of sweat, then drop away and slip around low underneath the back of Sherlock’s shirt to grasp his arse and dig in his fingertips.

Sherlock leans into John’s body, his mouth leaving John’s to huff hotly into John’s hair, “God... _John_.”

John brushes open-mouthed kisses down Sherlock’s neck to his chest, kneading his fingers into Sherlock’s arse the entire time. He licks across Sherlock’s nipple, hears him inhale with a sharp hiss and feels his hand move more fiercely between them. As John works his mouth down lower he reads Sherlock’s wish in the way he begins to arch his spine backwards, and John slips a hand up to the small of Sherlock’s back as support as Sherlock lets go of his cock. John shifts back enough to dip down, and Sherlock tips the curve of his thighs and torso up invitingly, his head dropping back slightly with a loud moan when he feels John’s mouth close over him.

“John... _fuck_ ,” Sherlock gasps, his head falling forward again as tension strums up his spine. His right hand grasps the back of John’s head and his left slips down the back of John’s neck to slide under his loose shirt collar and clutch wildly at the muscles of his shoulder. John responds by pressing his hands harder into Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock begins to completely come apart, a string of breathless pleas and groans and half-thoughts unspooling from him as he pushes into the warmth of John’s mouth “...John... God _yes_... _so good_... been wanting... wanting you... for _so long_... _fuck_... _John_...” the last word choked out in a low, grateful cry as his mind lets go, slips over the edge into a euphoric free fall.

As John feels Sherlock’s body begin to go slack he straightens up and slips his arms around Sherlock’s back to pull him forward. Sherlock goes willingly, slumping down into John’s embrace, his chin resting on John’s shoulder for a moment before he turns his head to press his lips to John’s neck. John slides a hand up into Sherlock’s now thoroughly-tousled hair and draws back enough so they can kiss. Which they do, and once again it is neither chaste _nor_ brief. It is _perfect_.

Despite the tangle of their remaining clothes, they maneuver themselves so they can collapse on their backs into the slope of the hay, John’s right arm pressed up against Sherlock’s left. John’s head is tilted so that his cheek is touching Sherlock’s shoulder, Sherlock’s head is tilted to rest against John’s hair. They slowly recover their breath, both staring up into the timbers above them.

An age passes, and John finally breaks the silence, “Well.” He forges ahead in a ridiculously cordial fashion, “It’s pleasant up here indeed. Bet it’s very nice when it rains. You know... the sound.”

Sherlock blows out a breath and starts smoothing his disheveled shirt. “Yes, but the roof leaks a little. Or at least it used to.”

John frowns in confusion at Sherlock’s definitive statement. “How–” he begins before realization hits. He laughs and gently swats Sherlock’s thigh. “You liar! You _have_ been up here before!”

Sherlock smirks. “You weren’t the only child with an annoying sibling. ‘Bloody peaceful’ is right. Mycroft never even would have _tried_ to waddle up that ladder.”

John gapes at the ceiling as he tracks the route of Sherlock’s machinations. “You knew I’d tease you about it... if you said you’d never been up here. You knew I’d climb up here and try to get you to follow,” he says, more in awe than anger.

“It was a good guess,” Sherlock says, smiling triumphantly. He bends his arm which is pressed up against John’s until he can reach John's hand. He threads his fingers through John’s.

John presses his palm tighter against Sherlock’s, bends his elbow to lift their joined hands up and kiss Sherlock’s knuckles. “It was a _brilliant_ guess.”

~~~~~~

A while later they are standing forlornly in their hopelessly rumpled attire, loitering outside the archway that leads back into the bright illumination of the main garden where the party is, unfortunately, still going strong.

Sherlock glares from one staid guest to the next and sighs, irritated. “Why are we back here exactly?” he asks sullenly.

“Because, it’s a party and it’s fun,” John says sarcastically, then adds more seriously, “And because your mother wants you here.”

Sherlock scowls. “Tedious. And I’m warning you right now that my mother and Mycroft will know precisely what we’ve been doing.”

John looks appraisingly between his and Sherlock’s wrecked clothing, does a double take when he sees a piece of hay still stuck in Sherlock’s hair. He reaches up to pluck it out. “Sherlock, we look like we’ve just murdered a scarecrow. And then had sex on its corpse. I think _everyone_ will know what we’ve been doing.” He looks around their immaculate surroundings and says pensively, “On second thought, maybe we shouldn’t go back in there and, you know, spoil the ambience.”

Sherlock’s mouth slowly unwinds into a wicked grin and he says conspiratorially, “ _On second thought_... maybe we _should_.”

They exchange knowing glances as they step inside.

 

 

 


End file.
